


To Be King

by Bard_TheChronicler



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deviates From Canon, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Personal Growth, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27432853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bard_TheChronicler/pseuds/Bard_TheChronicler
Summary: An exploration of the transformation of Alistair Theirein, Grey Warden to Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden. The Archdemon is dead, The Warden still lives, and Alistair is thrust into a kingship he didn't want while married to a queen he hardly knows or loves. Written as a participating work in a November/NaNoWriMo daily prompt challenge from r/fanfiction.
Relationships: Alistair/Anora Mac Tir
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	1. Coronation

There was more fanfare than he expected as the two of them entered the throne room. Trumpets blared, people cheered, and the roaring wave of sound that washed over him reminded him of the battle cries and crash of a battlefield charge. Except without the immediate danger of death and dismemberment. 

As he felt the eyes of all the assembled settle on him, Alistair actually wished he was leading the charge into another battle rather than walking into what lay ahead. At least then he would know what he was doing. Why had he agreed to this again?

He glanced towards Anora who stood at his side, looking as beautiful and poised as always. To be expected, of course. She had already been queen once before, and was technically still queen now, so she was used to things like this. Things that Alistair was aware of but hadn’t considered believably possible in his future.

Perhaps sensing his gaze, she turned and smiled at him, and for a moment he thought it genuine. But then he noticed how the smile did not quite reach her eyes. Those calculating crystal blue orbs behind which shone a keen intellect and a hardness born out of practicality. Why had _she_ agreed to this again?

Before he could delve too deeply into deciphering her reasons, she narrowed her eyes at him ever so slightly and motioned subtly towards the thrones on the raised platform at the far end of the room.

Right. There was a coronation to get over with first. He supposed figuring out how he got himself into this mess and what he was going to do about it could wait. It wasn’t like he had been agonizing over it the last week since the conclusion of the Battle of Denerim already anyway.

The crowd continued to cheer, though the volume had lessened from the initial overexuberance they displayed. Either that, or he had already gotten used to the loudness of the room. He wasn’t entirely sure.

They marched forward together, though they maintained a respectable distance apart. Alistair was arrayed in his golden royal armor, specially forged for him by the combined efforts of the Royal Ferelden Blacksmiths and the dwarves of Orzammar, while Anora wore an ornately beautiful red and pink dress lined and highlighted with gold, made by the skilled hands of master seamstresses both human and elven.

They looked every bit the King and Queen of Ferelden that they ought to be, minus the crowns. Though that would be addressed in but a few moments.

The walk to the thrones was arguably the longest walk of Alistair’s life. At one point, he even thought that he might have gotten stuck in the Fade somehow given that the end of the room seemed not to get any closer. But eventually, they reached the stairs, and he realized then that his heart was pounding away like a woodpecker struggling to break free from within his chest.

His legs felt stiff as he climbed the steps one at a time. In his growing panic he tried to reach for Anora’s hand, the closest thing he could latch onto for even some minor comfort and reassurance, and for a split second she held it. Then, as if realizing what was happening, she wrenched her hand away and swatted his own aside even though it was encased in an armored gauntlet.

Once he arrived at the top, he stared at the thrones that sat side-by-side and gulped. They looked larger than he imagined. Had they always been that big?

The corners of his lips tugged down, and he was glad at least that the vast crowd arrayed behind him could not see his face. Even Alistair knew that it would not do for his future subjects to see him like this. He got rid of the frown and glanced at Anora once again, but she was staring resolutely ahead at her own throne, her face a mask of determination.

Motion in the corner of his eye drew his attention to the Grand Cleric Elemena, the highest-ranking member of the Chantry in the kingdom. She drew closer to the two royals and, taking his cue from Anora who already began to kneel, Alistair quickly dropped to one knee.

The crowd suddenly quieted, leaving a ringing in Alistair’s ears.

Elemena raised her hand over him first, and then Anora, invoking the blessings of the Maker upon them and imparting a few words of wisdom while she was at it. She finished by voicing the hope that they would lead Ferelden into a new age of peace and prosperity.

Then she motioned to some priestesses standing off to the side who brought forth the finely crafted royal crowns resting on plush felt pillows. Placing one crown on each of their heads, the Grand Cleric stepped back and with big smile loudly declared them the official monarchs of the Kingdom of Ferelden.

Alistair took a sharp intake of breath as once more the crowd roared with approval and thunderous applause. His heart thudded hard against his chest.

Again, Anora was the first to move, with Alistair following her to their feet as they turned and beheld all the people packed into the spacious throne room. Every one of them looked at the two royals with genuine happiness and hope.

Both king and queen raised their hands to wave at the people. Their people. And despite all that had transpired thus far, with the weight of both the crown and the armor pressing against him, and the sights and sounds of his cheering subjects, Alistair could not help but feel like an impostor.

Now that he was one, what did it really mean to be king?


	2. A King in Name

Alistair shut his eyes for a moment and leaned back, glad for the moment of respite. "Please tell me it's not going to be like this every day," he whined.

"It's not going to be like this every day," came the quick, if a little flat, reply.

Alistair half-opened his tired eyes. Across from him on an identical cushioned couch was Anora, who unlike Alistair, was sitting up straight and proper as befitting a noblewoman of her stature. Her lips were pursed into a thin line, and there was the slightest tension on her face as she stared down at the teacup she held delicately in her hands.

"But there will be many days like it ahead." She took a sip of tea, her movements smooth and elegant.

The tea seemed to help her relax, as some of the tension on her face faded. She really was quite beautiful.

"I was afraid you'd say that." Alistair let out a sigh. "Any chance I can… you know… maybe lead an expedition in the Deep Roads or something? Fight some more darkspawn?" he asked with a bit of eagerness building. "Right now, I'd be willing to face a Hurlock Alpha all on my own rather than go through another hour of… _mingling_. They might as well start calling me King Alistair, Shaker of Hands… or something. Not exactly the most flattering of titles, you know. And I do have a reputation to keep."

He flexed his aching right hand open and closed a few times.

They had spent several hours immediately after the coronation meeting with practically everyone who was assembled in the throne room. Alistair knew a few names and faces from what Arl Eamon had taught him before, Arl Eamon himself among them, but there were far more names and faces that he didn't recognize. Or perhaps he had simply forgotten.

Thankfully, Anora had done most of the talking after the initial greetings and pleasantries with each personage. He was just glad he didn't make a fool of himself thus far. That had admittedly taken some effort on his part.

"It wouldn't be wise for the newly crowned king to go off galivanting through the Deep Roads so soon after ascending to the throne," Anora said in a neutral tone.

"Well, I wouldn't call it galivanting, exactly…"

"Especially when there is much work to be done to rebuild and return order and security to the kingdom after the chaos and destruction caused by the Blight."

"When you put it that way…"

"In fact, it would look almost as if you were _running_ _away_ from your duties as king and _hiding_ in the Deep Roads if you were to go there."

Alistair blanched. "That's not—"

"Not to mention the diminished state of our armies and even your fellow Grey Wardens, who need to rebuild and regroup themselves. The dwarves too if what I've heard is to be believed. No one has the manpower to spare at the moment and the darkspawn are shattered and retreating back into their dark holes. There is absolutely no need to go chasing after them and risk getting yourself killed in the process."

Alistair leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his face tiredly and sighed again. "Alright, alright. You've made your point. I get it. Really. I'm not _that_ dense. I'll be a good king and stay here in Denerim."

"Alistair," Anora said, causing him to look up as she leveled her steely gaze at him. "This may be your first day as king, but surely you understand that there is more to ruling a country than fighting and slaying enemies on the battlefield."

He looked away. "How bad is it, anyway?" he asked, his voice suddenly somber.

Anora sipped some more tea before she responded. "It's… not looking good. Picking up the pieces will take some time, let alone putting them all back together in a way that works and doesn't cause any more problems down the line. But… you needn't concern yourself with all the details. I'll take care of it."

Brow furrowing, he glanced back at her as she took yet another sip of tea. "Shouldn't I concern myself? I mean, I _am_ King of Ferelden just as much as you are Queen. I feel like I should know."

"And would you knowing actually solve anything?" Anora asked bluntly, raising a thin eyebrow at him skeptically.

Alistair flinched. "Well, I—"

"Tell me, how much do you know about our economy? About trade? Infrastructure and logistics? Resources? The politics of the Landsmeet? The relationships between our vassals and peoples? The laws and traditions of Ferelden? International politics and treaties?"

Alistair was quiet. He knew very little, if anything at all, about most of that. Arl Eamon had tried to educate him some when he was growing up with him, but those lessons hadn't really stuck. And then he became a Grey Warden and those things didn't seem important to know anymore.

As the silence stretched on uncomfortably, Alistair took a deep breath and began to wonder what the point of him being king was then if he wasn't able to do anything helpful at all. Surely there was something that he could do. Something that even he wouldn't be able to mess up. He stared at his own tea, probably cold now since he had yet to touch it.

"But I can't just sit by and do nothing either!" he said, louder than he intended as he broke the silence. Not that he could take it back now.

Anora didn't react to his raised voice, maintaining her own calm as she replied. "Of course not. I don't expect you to sit idly in the palace. Far from it."

"So… if I'm sticking around here… but not dealing with all that… what exactly will I be doing then?" he dared to ask.

She didn't respond right away, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.

"The people look to us for leadership, for assurance, and for hope. That things will get better. That we know what we're doing and are working hard to bring the kingdom back from the brink of destruction," she explained. "Between the civil war and the Blight… They need to _see_ us hard at work in addition to actually witnessing and feeling the changes around them. Visibility is even more important now as a monarch, and that won't happen if you're not here to _be_ seen."

"Okay. What you're saying is… all I have to do is smile and look pretty, then? Is that it?" He sounded incredulous. "Wave to the crowds and give some rousing speeches? Show off my shiny new armor?" Sure, he didn't really want to be king in the first place, but now that he was one he didn't think he'd be just a king in name only. Yet that seemed to be what Anora was trying to tell him.

"Exactly that." Anora nodded, looking totally serious. "I will of course accompany you on occasion, but otherwise, you will be expected to go out and make public appearances and speeches on your own. Raise their spirits and lift their hearts. Kiss babies and talk to nobles and smallfolk alike. Look strong, handsome, and competent as a king should. If nothing else, as a ruler… at least Cailan was good for that."

Alistair stiffened at the mention of his late half-brother. His eyes found the queen as she stood up and made for the door. He wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he saw a frown marring her beautiful features. But perhaps he had imagined it.

Anora paused as her hand rested on the door handle.

Without turning to look at him, she said, "I'm sure you're aware that the banquet tonight is important, Alistair. I suggest you bathe, change into something more comfortable, but presentable, and get a little rest. You'll be expected to give a speech about your friends and their heroism, so try and think of what to say. Oh, and of course, don't be late."

Then she was gone, leaving Alistair alone with his thoughts.


	3. The Hero of Ferelden

Bathed and changed into fresh clothes fit for a king, Alistair leaned over the crown he was holding on his lap. He ran a thumb over the polished gold and expensive jewels, slowly spinning it around as he admired the intricate lines and curves of the impressively decorative designs. It was a true masterpiece. A crown befitting a monarch.

To his right there came a pop and a crackle from the burning wood of the fireplace, and his gaze drifted over to watch the dancing flames. A frown creased his face, and the shadows of the creases by the firelight made him look decades older than he really was.

Anora’s words lingered in his mind, echoing the doubts and concerns that had plagued him for the days leading up to the coronation. It was one thing to doubt himself, however, and another thing entirely for someone else to openly voice criticism of his capabilities as a monarch. Especially when that someone else was Anora, now his queen and his wife — the latter fact still not something he could wrap his head around.

There was a loud knock at the door, shaking him from his thoughts as he turned towards the noise. Was it already time for the banquet?

He cleared his throat and returned the crown back atop his head. “Come in!”

The door swung open and, much to his surprise, in strode the only other remaining Grey Warden of Ferelden.

Alistair was so used to seeing the other Warden in armor that it felt strange to see that he was instead sporting something pulled out of a Ferelden nobleman’s wardrobe. It was fittingly grey and white, with the Grey Warden griffin stitched over his left breast and on his right shoulder. The outfit was undoubtedly custom made, though when and where the Warden had gotten it done was a mystery.

The Warden was a tall man with a slim athletic build and sharp eyes the color of emeralds. They twinkled with a hint of mischief in the firelight. He had a roguishly handsome face with wavy dark brown hair that flowed to a stop at his shoulders. Along with his strong nose and high cheekbones, it was easy enough to see that the Cousland blood was strong with this one.

The only blemish on his otherwise smooth face was a small thin scar, perhaps two inches long, to the side of his left eye. He had incurred the wound in the final battle against the Archdemon, and had nearly lost his eye, or perhaps even more, were it not for a stroke of luck that he had stumbled in his footing, causing him to fall backwards and the blow to barely graze his face.

After the battle was won, he could have had the wound completely healed without any scars, but he later explained to Alistair that he wanted to keep it as a reminder of that battle. In memory of how harrowingly close it had been. In addition, he claimed that women found battle scars quite attractive, and Alistair knew well enough the man’s fondness for the fairer sex.

Alistair spoke first despite his surprise as the Warden quietly shut the door and walked closer.

“Lucian! What are you doing here?”

“Your Royal Majesty, King Alistair Theirin, First of His Name,” began Lucian with an exaggerated bow. “I humbly ask that you please forgive thus humble subject's sudden intrusion.” A smirk played on his lips. His words flowed smooth as butter, and he spoke with a steadiness and confidence that belied his age, for he was barely past his majority. A confidence that had always been there, but was further strengthened by killing the Archdemon with his own hands.

“I’m going to have to decline on forgiveness,” Alistair replied quickly. “I think a week in the dungeons would serve you quite well, to be honest.” He tried his best to say it seriously but was grinning despite himself.

Lucian’s smirk grew. “Are you talking about… sex dungeons, perhaps? Or the other kind?”

“Maker’s breath! The other kind, of course!” Alistair’s eyes went wide, cheeks flushing at the thought of such things. He shook his head to clear the images that came unbidden to his mind. He narrowed his eyes at Lucian. “You’ll be going to the dark, nasty dungeons full of spiders, rats, and… and filth. Yes, so much filth. Perhaps a skeleton or two to keep you company as well. That would serve a dirty scoundrel like you right!”

“Then I suppose I’d have a bone to pick with you once I get out.” Lucian crossed his arms, looking critically at the young king.

They stared at each other for a few seconds before they broke into laughter, grinning boyishly at each other.

Alistair stood and crossed the distance between them in a few strides. He grabbed Lucian firmly by the forearm in a solid warrior’s greeting and clasped a hand on his arm, a gesture that was mirrored by the Warden.

“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Alistair said sincerely, looking straight into Lucian’s eyes.

Despite the impending doom and gloom hanging over them back then, Alistair missed the times the party had spent together. Lucian. Bari, Lucian’s Mabari. Leliana. Wynne. Sten. Oghren. Zevran. Shale. And yes, even Morrigan. They had all barely seen each other these past few days since the final battle in Denerim, and Alistair was certain that after tonight they would start to go their separate ways. Although one of their number had already disappeared.

Lucian looked bemused as they let go of each other. “You make it sound like we haven’t seen each other in an age.”

“Yes, well… Maker’s breath… today has been a _very_ long day.” Alistair sat back down heavily, gesturing for Lucian to take a seat as well.

“I can imagine. You’ve got a shiny new accessory on your head now.” Lucian’s eyes settled on Alistair’s crown.

Alistair let out a snort, adjusting the crown unconsciously as Lucian made himself comfortable in the chair opposite Alistair, close to the fire as well for warmth. They were still very much deep into winter, and even the air inside the palace was chilly.

“Is that why you’re in here by yourself brooding and staring into the fire like some troubled old man?” asked Lucian.

Alistair scoffed. “I’ll have you know, good sir, that brooding isn’t exclusive to troubled old men. It’s actually a very inclusive practice, open to people of all ages and races, I might add. You should try it sometime… Perhaps while you’re _rotting away_ _in the dungeons_ with those skeletons. Plenty of time to brood down there, I imagine.”

“No thank you. I think I’ll pass,” replied Lucian with a chuckle.

“A shame. And here I was thinking of calling in my guards to take you away right this minute.”

“Speaking of guards,” said Lucian, half-serious, “Do you have any idea how easy it was for me to get in here? I mean, this is the Royal Palace we’re talking about! You should have better security here of all places. Imagine how disappointed Zevran would be if I told him how simple it was for me to waltz in here and have an audience with the newly crowned king. With my sword still in my possession!”

Alistair smiled at the thought. “That’s not fair to the Royal Guards. Not fair at all. _You_ are the Hero of Ferelden. Everyone knows who you are, and they also know that we’re good friends. You could go pretty much anywhere in the Palace without much trouble, I think.”

“Ah, but what if I was only pretending to be the Hero of Ferelden? What if I was some impostor? Or what if someone had managed to convince me to assassinate you?”

Still smiling, Alistair shrugged and said, “Then I guess my reign as king will be the shortest in Ferelden history.”

Lucian sighed, leaning back into his chair. “Well, fret not. I’m not here to kill you.”

“Zevran might be disappointed about that too,” mused Alistair.

“Ha! Maybe. But we’re not in Antiva, so I’m sure he’ll let it slide. Anyways, just thought I’d point it out that you should consider improving your security. You can never be too cautious these days, especially with everything that’s happened between the nobility over the last six months…”

Alistair’s smile swiftly changed into a frown, his eyes darkening at the reminder of the recent civil war. Of the treachery of some nobles in taking advantage of the chaos of the Blight to further their own agendas.

“Yes, I will keep that in mind, Lucian. Thank you.”

A silence settled between them for a time, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

********

“How is your brother?” asked Alistair, after they had run out of lighter topics to discuss.

Lucian leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he clasped his hands together. “Fergus? He’s… coping… well enough, I suppose. I’m not sure it’s quite hit him yet. What’s happened to his family… to _our_ family. I imagine that once he returns to Highever, he will… well… he’ll manage. He is a Cousland, after all.”

Alistair nodded in solemn understanding. “When does he plan to head back?”

“On the morrow, I believe,” replied Lucian. “He doesn’t want to spend any more time than necessary here. With the coronation finished and the banquet soon to be over with, he and his men have no more reason to tarry. There is much to take care of back home.”

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“Thank you, Alistair,” interrupted Lucian. “But I think you have more pressing concerns as king to worry about.”

Alistair turned to the fire. “Will you be accompanying him?”

“I don’t know, to be honest.” Lucian shifted in his chair. “I’m not sure what I should do. Of course, I’d like to go with him and help to rebuild Highever, but… I’m not exactly _just_ Lucian Cousland anymore. I fear that I’d be more of a… distraction… for my brother and the people, if I were to go with him now. He is to be Arl now, and…”

Alistair smiled sadly. “Lucian Cousland. Hero of Ferelden and last Grey Warden of Ferelden. I can see how that can be a distraction to some.”

“It’s a bit much, no?”

“If they only knew _half_ the things you get up to in your spare time…”

Lucian let out a snort. “I swear by the Maker that everything I do, I do for the greater good.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow at him. “The greater good… of whom exactly?”

Lucian smiled. “That depends.”

“And _that_ is exactly why I need to warn the people about you.”

“What? Are you going to tell them all about me then?”

“You know, I just might do that now that you mention it… Perhaps I’ll even make it a royal proclamation. For the good of the people of Ferelden, you understand. Nay, the whole of Thedas, even.”

“Of course, of course. We must always think of the people,” said Lucian with a chuckle. “I’m sure at some point there’s bound to be a decree on _swooping_ , as well.”

Alistair sniffed. “I see nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. Swooping _is_ bad, you know.”

“Right, right. Well, I’m glad you’re putting the powers of the kingship to good use, my friend.”

Alistair frowned at that comment, and another spell of silence fell between them.

Lucian stared at Alistair for a while, with the young king gazing into the fire, brooding once more over his future and the words Anora had spoken earlier. With Alistair distracted, Lucian took the time to look around the room.

“I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting to still find you here in the Guest Wing of the palace. I thought that after the coronation you’d have transferred to the Royal Suite, at least. Perhaps even the Royal Bedchambers themselves. You know, since you _are_ husband and wife, king and queen. Isn’t it a tad unusual that you live in entirely separate wings of the palace?”

Alistair’s brow furrowed as he glanced over to his friend. “Perhaps it would be strange if these were more normal circumstances… but Anora and I… we haven’t exactly discussed the living situation since my accession. There are more important things to worry about at the moment than who sleeps where, I think.”

“You’re not wrong on that,” agreed Lucian, “But, the two of you are supposed to unite the country. You two are the beacon of hope, a symbol of the two factions in the recent civil war that have come together to make the kingdom whole again. But you cannot do that if you stay separate like this, regardless if the reasons are legitimate. People will talk. The nobles will gossip. How can you bring us together if you yourselves are living apart?”

Crossing his arms, Alistair’s frown deepened. “Well, like I said, we haven’t discussed the matter. It's the first day of our reign, after all. Besides, we _are_ living under the same roof. It’s not like we won’t see each other every day despite living in different sides of the palace.”

“What’s there to discuss?” asked Lucian with befuddlement. “All you have to do is tell her you’re moving in and then follow through.”

“Are you mad? Of course, I can’t do that! And even if I did, you and I both know Anora wouldn’t agree.”

“I’m not so sure about that, if you word it properly,” Lucian said thoughtfully, “Besides, even if she didn’t agree, you _are_ the King of Ferelden, are you not?”

Alistair blinked, not seeing where this was going. “Yes?” he answered warily.

“And the King in our monarchical system is, technically, higher even than the Queen in authority, is he not?”

“I suppose, but—"

“So, there is no issue,” said Lucian adamantly. “If you decide on it, she will have to accept it. You are well within your rights as both her king and her husband to share the same bed, let alone the same quarters. All you must do is show some backbone. You do still have one of those somewhere, yes? The last time I saw it was when we faced off against the Archdemon and his darkspawn horde, which was a little while ago.”

Alistair scoffed, though was currently at a loss for words.

“Come on! What happened to the Alistair Theirin who told me before this union was even agreed to, unequivocally, that Anora wasn’t going to walk all over him once he became king? I seem to recall that he promised me to do his best to be a great and strong king. Well, it seems to me she’s already begun to put her foot on your neck and you’re lying down to take it.”

“It’s not that simple!” Alistair snapped, face contorting for a moment as he glared at Lucian.

Lucian shrugged, seemingly unaffected by the outburst. “Seems simple enough to me.”

“Well it isn’t.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

Alistair closed his eyes and took a moment to calm himself, and Lucian waited with quiet patience.

The fire sputtered as the remains of the burning logs broke apart. It would need to be replenished with fresh wood soon.

When Alistair finally spoke, his voice was subdued. He spoke of his own misgivings about his ascension to the throne, his discomfort with his marriage to his deceased half-brother’s widow, and most importantly, he recounted Anora’s harsh but not unfounded words on his abilities and responsibilities as king only a few hours before. All of it flowed out in a torrent of words until the young king was spent.

“Okay, maybe your situation is not as simple as I made it out to be,” conceded Lucian, rubbing his chin in thought, “But the solution to your woes is easier than you think. There's no need to brood so heavily about all that.”

Alistair leaned forward. “I’m listening.” He had been hoping his friend would have some advice for him. Solving complicated problems was his forte, after all. He had seen Lucian overcome more challenges and problems than most people could think of. When the man put his mind to it, he really did seem to be able to accomplish just about anything. 

Lucian’s face broke into a smile. “All you have to do… is act like a king.”


End file.
